


Maybe, we can find a place to feel good (And we'll belong)

by PersonyPepper



Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Is In Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Light Angst, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Prompt: Kaer Morhen, Retirement, Retrospective, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: “Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do witchers ever retire?”He knows the answer to the question, of course, he’d asked the same question himself to his signs master, his short, curly white hair scorched after a misplaced blast of igni during training. The witcher had laughed at him, told him,“You can’t need anyone, Geralt, and the last thing we need is someone needing us— witchers don’t retire, we slow and we get killed.”But there has to be more to his painfully long life than that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084442
Comments: 19
Kudos: 270





	1. Chapter 1

Home is a difficult idea for Geralt to comprehend. Of course, objectively he knows a home is a… a building, safe place and that it’s supposed to be welcoming and that— alright, no, he doesn’t know.

Kaer Morhen is a shelter, a reprieve from hatred. He knows his brothers love him, as does Vesemir, but the empty halls are filled with melancholic memories; playfully running down them, quiet song on his lips, only to be beaten mindless for lapse in control. _You’re a witcher, Geralt, they’d said, though he’d been but three, not a child. Remember that._

Courtyards are covered in invisible bloodshed, being stabbed for a duck a second too late, slashed, bruised— training is vicious, even know as an adult, and sorrow only increases, remembering how he and his trainees had punched the innocence out of each other, trained to be warriors for a never ending war. Even Geralt’s own bedroom is a memory of fear, Lambert and Eskel sneaking into his bed after bedhour fumbling to give each other comfort, kissing bruises, stitches, massaging tense muscles and falling asleep in a pile of pups and thin blankets when it’s all said and done, praying to Melitele that their teachers would let them have this, at least.

He has to say, though, his understanding of home is not _entirely_ objective. His home is his brothers, Vesemir, he returns to _them_ every winter, not to worn stone walls. But home is a place filled with family— he has the family and he knows he’s missing out, so _close_ , but not quite.

Roach is family. Ciri and Jaskier are family, too. Comforting presences on the road while he’s ever-traveling. Idly, Geralt wonders if buildings could travel, if homes could travel. He has a place to return to, his daughter’s hands in his hair, his bard’s cuddles, his brother’s tackles, his mentor’s hugs, and yet, he’s missing something. 

_“Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do witchers ever retire?”_

The question’s bothered him since the second it slipped past Jaskier’s lips on that fateful night in Cintra, when Ciri was yet to be born (he sometimes can't believe it, how much she's grown, a girl of ten years, headstrong and brave. Calanthe would be immensely proud, he knows.). 

He knows the answer to the question, of course, he’d asked the same question himself to his signs master, his short, curly white hair scorched after a misplaced blast of igni during training. The witcher had laughed at him, told him, “ _You can’t need anyone, Geralt, and the last thing we need is someone needing us— witchers don’t retire, we slow and we get killed.”_

But there has to be more to his painfully long life than that.

He sits his love down as the summer turns to fall, Ciri asleep in her tent, Roach draped across the entrance like some large guard dog while the dying leaves of trees rustle in the slight breeze. Jaskier sits between his legs, his back against Geralt’s chest and a fur draped over the both of them as the stare at the fire— he wraps his arms around his bard, brings him impossibly closer as he feels Jaskier shiver in the gentle howl of wind.

Jaskier leans up to kiss him, a content smile on his face as he settles his head back against Geralt’s shoulder, listening to the fire’s song, beats of crackling wood and a roar of voices.

How is this his life?

He remembers his younger self being told to stay away from humans, _for they’ll only hurt you._ He remembers to _keep your head down, collect your coin, and go._ Remembers how they’d tell them everyday _No one wants you— you’re to want for no one, either._

And yet, he has a child. A husband. Brothers, a father. He couldn’t he want for anyone now, when he has everyone he could want, everything he hadn’t dared imagined. And all he needs is a home, to keep everyone in.

He takes Jaskier’s hand into his own.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, trailing off as Jaskier hums, tucking himself into Geralt’s arms. “We should… uh— hm.” His bard cups his cheek and rubs a comforting thumb over his cheekbone as Geralt idly runs his fingertip at Jaskier’s ringed finger. “We should get a house. By the coast.”

The words leave him blushing, having burst out of his mouth, and he belatedly realizes that his eyes have slipped closed in shame when Jasksier tilts Geralt’s chin to look at him.

It feels fucking _stupid_ , asking for a home.

_Kaer Morhen is the only place that will accept you. No one will love you on your Path, your work will be thankless but Kaer Morhen will always accept you._

And yet, he is greedy, asking for more, aching for more when he should be— “Come back to me, my love,” Jaskier whispers, so quiet that it forces Geralt to concentrate. “Come back, and tell me what you need.”

He barely manages to choke out the word, “Home.” Lithe arms wrap around his shoulders as his husband gives him time to think, find his words. A gentle kiss is pressed to his cheek, fingers in his hair as he holds Jaskier and Jaskier holds him.

“Want to buy a home. For our… family.” _Get the idea out of your head, Geralt, you’ll be a full-fledged witcher soon, and you know full well we can’t mate._

How wrong they’d be and oh how lucky he is. It becomes easier with that thought. “For our cub, for us. My brothers and Vesemir. By the coast, it’ll be good for us. Want a home.”

Jaskier grins, eyes sparkling as strongly as the stars above their head, dimples poking through his supple skin. He smells so strongly of happiness that it nearly overwhelms Geralt, chamomile thick in the air. The sight burns the last of Geralt’s hesitancy and insecurity away.

“I suppose we should start saving some money then, dear witcher. And I know a man, who’d adore taking you in as a blacksmith when we get there, you told me once you enjoyed metalworking at Kaer Morhen, didn’t you? Oh, I’m sure you’ll adore it, all hard work, grease— fuck, you’d come home like that and I wouldn’t be able to resist, best not do that then— oh! A bakery, you have a sweet tooth we all know, but nevermind that,” the bard turns to him, excitement clear on his face, “I know a lord— yes, one I’m in good graces with, surprise Geralt— who’ll be interested in selling us a home, we could look into it, right by the sea, scenic, quiet, oh, my dear witcher, I—” Geralt smiles to himself, humming and chuckling as Jaskier rambles well into the night, imaging with him the life he’s managed to score for himself.

~~

He watches on as Vesemir cooks, Ciri summing her lute as Eskel and Lambert attempt best each other in an arm wrestle. Geralt can hear the sounds of the sea despite the sizzling pan, lutestring twangs, and frankly ridiculous trash talk as he sits on the couch, curled against Jaskier with the bard’s arm over his shoulders as he hums along to Ciri’s half-formed chords, encouraging her.

Winter is a cruel mistress, he knows, had left him to return to the one place his family had been tortured for eons, separated from his husband and his cub, but that isn’t his life anymore. As they gather around their table for dinner, their new home already a mess, he realizes that Winter could prove herself to be not so terrible after all.


	2. Chapter 2

They still travel to Kaer Morhen that winter. The trail up it is a week long when he’s on his own, but with his family alongside him, two humans (they both aren’t, but they’re still his family, and he worries, _Melitele_ , he does); Roach’s footing is sure; he trusts her as much as he trusts himself to guide them up the path. Even Jaskier is quiet, lute secured onto his back, breath harsh as they inch along the cliff.  
  
They manage to get out with only a few scratches bleed in Jaskier’s face, which Geralt takes care to clean and bandage as his bard looks on with a pout, calling him coddler. Geralt can very well smell the scent of his husband’s love, fondness shining in his eyes as he practically melts into the Witcher’s touch. He presses a soft kiss to Jaskier’s lips, tilting that put-on pout into a smile as his bard deepens the kiss. Ciri gags at her dads’ antics somewhere behind them, climbing into her tent and Jaskier laughs, settling into a bedroll in front of it.  
“Remember Geralt,” he says, voice quiet with the promise of sleep,“when the moon hits the apex, it’s my turn to keep watch, your lack of beauty sleep will kill us all if you don’t rest.”

  
The next day, they encounter bhargests, Jaskier snarling, claws ripping through the beasts’ flesh before Geralt can even draw his sword. Ciri let’s out a low whistle and trudges on.

The trek isn’t so bad after that, Jaskier radiating smugness and heat, his dragonite pupils gazing at Geralt, his mate, in contentment and pride for having protected him and their cub. The bard is still too hot to touch, even for a Witcher, but that doesn’t stop Geralt from giving him the quickest peck to his cheek and praising him for being so strong and so fast and so pretty.  
  
How the fuck had he managed to fall in love with such a ridiculous— no _dragon_ —he’ll never know, but he thanks Destiny that he did.  
  
They stumble into Kaer Morhen, a house of past nightmares that his family currently resides in. Though, Geralt does plan on changing that soon.  
  
~~  
  
The cold season nears its end when Geralt finally breaches the subject to Lambert and Eskel. The two, unsurprisingly, agree, teasing Geralt for having become a family man and who’s the White Wolf to disagree? He loves his pack, after all.  
  
He’s nervous to ask his father, and works it off by fucking Jaskier into the bed till they’re forced to get ready for dinner.  
  
~~  
  


Vesemir’s eyes _glow_ when Geralt asks him about abandoning the keep as they eat dinner. He leaves the table with a resolute _no._ Geralt and his brothers share a look, Jaskier’s hand a warm comfort on his thigh as Ciri’s brows furrow. “Nothing to worry about, cub,” Jaskier tells her, “Geralt just needs to go talk to his dad, it’ll be alright.” And Geralt gets up follows Vesemir to the greenhouse, a dead thing that his father tried to revive every winter.  
  
~~  
  
“This place is my home, Geralt. It’s my history, walls that hold memories of those before us, when there were more.” Vesemir turns to face him, dry vines catching on his clothes.  
  
“This place is a cemetery, Vesemir. Cemeteries aren’t meant to be lived in.” His father only huffs, shaking his head.  
  
“It’s much more than that, Geralt—”

“Father,” Vesemir straightens, amber eyes staring into his own. It’s the first time he’s called him that, and though Vesemir is surprised, Geralt can see fondness in his eyes. “All these walls hold for you is the sounds of agony of dying boys and the absence of noise from the dead ones that didn’t make it past five. History is sometimes best lost to itself.”  
  
Vesemir looks pained as he stares at his pup, his features softening. “We must lay flowers here, though, Geralt, we must remember who we were, even if their names are forgotten, you must ensure their stories aren’t, even long after I am gone.  
  
Geralt feels a burning behind his eyes he hasn’t felt since he was a child as his father brings him into an embrace, eyes swimming with unshed tears.

"I promise,” he replies as they walk back to the table, gleeful whoop leaving Lambert’s throat upon their return.

They pack as their date of leave beckons closer, clothes shoved into age-old luggage and bags, mismatched cutlery and uneaten food as well as all the keepsakes they bother to carry. Geralt looks at his room for the last time, looking at his lone bed where there used to be six, seven in a room, half-dead children not unlike himself lining beds. He remembers Lambert’s and Eskel’s touches, curious and comforting. He remembers late nights of soreness only to wake up to early mornings of more pain and closes the door behind him, glad he’ll never have to sleep in here again.  
  
~~  
  
The lord does sell them a lovely house by the cottage for a ridiculously low amount, quoting something about how Jaskier had shown him _earthly delights_ he couldn’t have imagined in the wildest of his dreams.  
  


Geralt barely bites back a snarl, wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s waist possessively, their glinting rings apparently too subtle for the lord’s notice, the witcher’s own neck bared to show off where his husband had bit him in a dragon’s bond.  
  
The lord shuts up with a splutter, red in the face as he lowers the price even more in apology.  
  
Geralt is pulled into an alleyway by the collar, Jaskier kissing him hard enough to leave him breathless, taking him against the wall with such praise it makes the witcher’s head spin as he spills over over Jaskier’s fist wrapped around both their cocks. The bard is soon to follow after, calling him so _unfairly_ sexy when he’s possessive that all Geralt can do is drop to his knees and suck his husband off in the little alley.  
  
When they finally managed to get off each other, they encounter a woman, red-faced and unwilling to meet their eyes, though they can both smell they slick between her legs. Jaskier laughs after they walk by her, playful warning Geralt not to get jealous again, and how could he when Jaskier is all his, bites and bruises peeking above his collar to prove it.  
  
~~  
  
They’re moved out if the tavern by the end if the week, furniture bought and kitchen stocked in their _home_. It has seven rooms, one left for storage as Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir take the rooms upstairs, Ciri choosing the room with a nice, large windows looking into the coast, leaving Geralt and Jaskier the room closest to the kitchen, a larger one with a patio that faces the sea.  
  


It’s everything Geralt had imagined, living with his family in a place without memories to haunt them. They laugh freely, unweighed by crumbling stone walls that sing of loss, wings of a new future making them soar.  
  
Ciri picks up the lute when her uncles and grandfather return to the path. When they return for the winter, she hasn’t much improved, but as summer pass, the sound of laughter and two expertly played lutes welcome the witchers home, Geralt a distinguished blacksmith _(Ha! I was right, knew you’d love it, dear Geralt, but fuck knew I wouldn’t able to keep my hands off you when you get home, Ciri’s not due back from school for another hour, come, let’s make the best of our time…)._  
  
And so days pass, Vesemir eventually retiring from The Path to better train Ciri as she grows, Lambert and Eskel returning each winter to tell tales of their hunts, perfectly talkative for Jaskier’s ballads. They return to Kaer Morhen every couple years, remember, grieve, but always return to a home that waits for them  
  
 _Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do witchers ever retire?”_  
  
Curled up in his husband’s arms by the fireplace, Ciri helping (making a mess out of) the kitchen as Vesemir looks on with a softness Geralt didn’t know how father possessed, his brothers arguing about why Lil’ Bleater is the cutest, Geralt can very much say yes, witchers do retire and retirement is an entirely blissful thing to have.

**Author's Note:**

> For Geralt Whump Week ( @geraltwhumpweek )! This was kinda a lovely note to finish this challenge on! 
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Thanks you guys for reading<33
> 
> Title’s from Treat People With Kindness by Harry Styles. 
> 
> Also I cannot thank Winter enough for helping me with this challenge, from helping me bounce off ideas to looking over my work and giving my feedback. I legit would’ve been so much worse off with this challenge without your help, Winter, thank you, my darling <33
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr (@persony-pepper)!](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


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